


A Beacon Burning Endlessly Bright

by AxeMeAboutAxinomancy



Series: Air Supply [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean's Room, First Time, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:03:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2757152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't always have nightmares. You'd think he would whenever he closed his eyes, but they were like the weather, they came and went.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beacon Burning Endlessly Bright

**Author's Note:**

> You can take the darkness from the pit of the night  
> And turn into a beacon burning endlessly bright - AIR SUPPLY

"Whatever, man," snapped Dean. "Don't act like you know what I'm thinking. You may have 'the shining' while you're asleep sometimes, but I know for a fact you can't really read minds. So get off it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Sam, and suddenly it was backtracking time for Dean.

Because Sam wasn't psychic, or at least not in the way Dean was talking about, but he sure wasn't stupid.

But the only thing worse than him understanding was him _mis_ understanding.

"Why, Dean?" Sam demanded. "What would I hear?" He was mad enough to be aggressive, pushing forward when Dean backed up in preparation for a casual escape. "About how often I've let you down?"

Dean's confusion and astonishment were obviously clear on his face, because Sam stopped, looking at him.

"No," Dean said. "I'm not like Dad," counting on mention of Dad to be the ultimate diversion. But even as he said it, he knew he wasn't telling the truth. He was like their father, too much like.

"Then what, Dean?" Sam wasn't mad anymore, his voice softening, and he was trying to understand, but Dean needed him not to understand.

"Nothing. I didn't mean anything. I was just running my mouth." Too late he thought of a lie he might have gotten away with: 'If you could read minds half our cases would be easy peasy' might have done it. Too late now.

"I don't wanna talk about this anymore," Dean said, and disappeared into his room.

He closed the door. He didn't lock it. He wasn't trying to make a point. He was just tired of talking about this subject and now, he was tired, period.

He looked around at the walls. The same walls as last time. Not just another samey hotel room but the same actual room. It wasn't so special in and of itself but the fact that it was his made it seem like a weird foreign country he was trying to immerse himself in the language of.

There were his weapons on the wall, arranged just the way he liked to see them. His bed was awesome, just ridiculously comfortable. And everything was clean. Really clean.

Was there ever going to come a time when that was just - ordinary, normal?

Was there ever going to come a time when _anything_ was? No, and stop asking.

Dean supposed he'd get used to having his own room about five minutes before the whole bunker got blown up by an atomic bomb.

He took a shower before he turned in. He took kind of a beating today and he was sore all over. And the hot water pressure here was phenomenal, even more awesome than memory foam. The shower didn't need to remember you, it just blasted everything away. Ahhhh.

He dried off, hung his towel up on his own hook that he put there just for that purpose, turned off the lights and walked naked in total darkness and almost perfect silence (except for the various whooshings of the vent system) to climb into his own bed.

He stretched out all the way, trusting that the sheets were clean and hid no surprises. He lay in his darkness, listened to his own breathing. There was no neon anywhere.

Dean's eyes almost hurt from how dark it was. Closing them didn't really seem to help either. It was like the silence of being in the country when you were used to cities and towns: bigger than any noise. The truly dark darkness of underground was like that too. So loud it was deafening.

But Dean rarely had trouble getting to sleep when he was tired, at least for a few necessary hours, and once he stuck his head under his pillow he was down like a dropped rock.

He didn't always have nightmares. You'd think he would whenever he closed his eyes, but they were like the weather, they came and went. He had them most often when he was somewhere he felt safe, so it only made sense he should have one now.

He was in Hell again. He didn't know about the seals yet, but he had already broken the first one himself and he was hard at work. Every soul that they brought to him was someone he knew, someone he and Sam had saved.

Each time he looked at them and knew their name and remembered everything about them. But it didn't stop him picking up the knife, the awl, the hook or the razor no matter who it turned out to be. They brought him his own parents, one at a time. They brought him Bobby. They brought him the bewildered Jimmy Novak, abandoned by Castiel. Dean did it just the same. Everybody's blood was red, and everybody's insides were mostly pink, and there was an expected range (in volume and in pitch) of screaming. There was a numbing sameness to the things people said when they begged him to stop.

And then of course they brought him Sam. Sam who (he knew this in the way you know stuff like this in dreams) had tried to make his own deal to get Dean out, but Dean didn't deserve to get out anymore, so Sam had been betrayed, cheated of his soul and dumped here.

Sam looked up at him from where he was chained to the elevated table, his eyes showing equal amounts despair and hope, and Dean -

_No -_

\- gave him the same smile he gave all of them, and after a moment of thoughtful decision, picked up the razor -

_Sam_

_SAM!_

Dean was thrashing inside himself, possessed by the dream as though by a demon, unable to stop what his body was doing. Inside he was like a hooked fish, flapping and gasping.

_help me_

_stop it_

_oh god stop it please_

But those were the same things they all said to him, weren't they?

Dean brought the razor up to Sam's cheek and held it where Sam's eye could fix on it. Nothing he could do inside made the least bit of difference: he couldn't pull his arm back, he couldn't drop the razor, he couldn't stop his mouth saying, with a big smile, "Should I start with your pretty face, or save it for last?"

He sounded really professional.

Inside he was screaming.

Sam opened his mouth and said, sharply, "Dean." He showed no fear of the razor or of Dean.

"I think... last, 'cause I'd like to see the _look on your face_ when I cut off one of your - "

" **Dean!** "

His hands were on Dean's shoulders. How had Sam gotten free of the restraints? How had he done it without Dean seeing it? Where was his razor? What would they _do_ to him if he lost a _soul_ …?

"Dean. **Wake up!** "

Sam shook him, and it was like the real Dean inside snapped free, and he opened his eyes.

Sam was really there, shaking him by the shoulders, and Dean was in his bed in his room, and there was light from the hallway spilling through the open door. Room. Bunker. Earth. It had been a dream. Another nightmare about Hell.

"Dean??"

"What?" He rubbed his eyes, disoriented, as Sam let go of his shoulders. "What's the matter?"

"You were screaming," Sam said. "Calling for help. You called me."

Sam was breathing hard like he'd just been running, like he'd had to come running down the hall. Dean felt grateful - he hadn't opened his eyes one damn moment too soon - but also more than a little humiliated. Had he shouted that loud? Had he really lost the knack of stealthy sleep? Hunters couldn't go calling out in their nightmares. It attracted predators, revealed weaknesses. You had to keep that shit _in_.

One of Dad's lessons. Dad had been gone a long time. Dean had long since started hearing those things in his own mental voice.

"Sorry I woke you up." He rubbed one hand over his face. "Glad nobody else is staying here right now."

"You didn't make any noise," said Sam. "I wasn't even asleep. I was trying to read, and then I knew you were - calling me. It was like you were trapped somewhere there wasn't any air, and I had to get you out. Fast." He shrugged. Dean heard this gesture more than he saw it. Sam's silhouette was an oblique mass of shadow next to him.

Dean didn't say anything to that. After a few moments Sam said softly, "You okay?"

Yeah, I'm fine, Sammy, just a craptastic dream, thanks for waking me up, go back to bed. That's what he should say. But what came out was, "No."

Sam just waited. He was getting better at that.

"Honestly? I don't think I'm ever gonna be okay."

"Me, either."

"What does that mean? You can still have a - " he faltered, but it was too late. Sam picked up the dropped words. "Normal life? Really? I _had_ one. And then it was like, the universe just took it back from me. Like a library book. Like a motel key. - I've been to Hell too, Dean. I think you forget that sometimes. I was in the Pit."

He was right. Dean tried to forget that whenever it came to his mind. He couldn't stand it, it was like an open wound that wouldn't heal up.

"We're both idiots," he muttered. "We both chose to go." It seemed like most of the idiots who made the deal didn't really believe Hell was a real place. They found out, though.

But what else could he have done?

Sam got up and went to the door, closing it, returning the room to total darkness. Dean thought in confusion that Sam had gone out, but then he heard him moving carefully back across the floor.

Then Sam poked Dean's leg through the blankets. "Move over."

"What…?"

"Move _over_. I'm tired. I wasn't sleeping because I can't sleep when I can't hear you breathe. And anyway, if you need me to wake you up again, I won't have far to go."

Dean started to move, and suddenly realized, remembered that he was naked. Sam wasn't, of course. Dean couldn't see but the rustle of clothes was audible when he moved.

"I've - only got one pillow," he said, the only thing he could think of to say, the only objection he could lay his hands on that wasn't the real one.

"Keep it, I don't need one." And Sam poked some more until Dean had to move over.

Sam slid in under the covers and flopped down on his back with a sigh. Dean, alarmed, retreated as far as he could go without falling out of the bed completely. The outer edge of the bed was cold at first.

"Oh man," said Sam, in a hushed voice. "This is _nice_." He wiggled around a bit on the memory foam.

"I know, right?" Dean was proud of his choice. It hadn't been cheap, but it was worth it, not to mention all the hassle of getting it in here. "It'll remember you now, too."

"You're such a dope," Sam yawned and laughed at the same time.

Dean waited to be told memory foam didn't work that way, but Sam was already falling asleep.

"You just - heard me, right? You didn't see what I was dreaming about."

Sam just grunted. Dean had to take that as pretty much a Yes. If he'd seen it, he wouldn't be willingly falling asleep next to Dean, now would he.

_I can't sleep when I can't hear you breathe_ , Sam had said. And Dean listened to Sam breathing, and he understood what Sam meant. All those years sharing a motel room. Most times they had their own bed, though sometimes they'd had to share. Like, when a single king was all they could get, or one of the beds was under a leaky ceiling. No matter how it worked out, they were always in the same room, and it was weird to sleep without hearing this, the deep regular breaths, the occasional dreaming snuffles.

Dean liked having his own room, he really did. But he liked it even better this way. He could hear Sam breathe, he knew Sam was okay. It mattered. He could rest easier knowing it.

And it was warm. Really warm. Sam gave off heat like some guy-sized nuclear reactor. Dean inched closer to get a little more of that, like camping near a fire. Trying to get close enough to be warm without actually touching.

He dozed off, vaguely thinking about that: Sam as a fire, and the big cold of outdoors surrounding the bed, millions of stars cold and hard above. Below, a reflection in polished stone, the same stars reflected a million miles down. It was a circle - a sphere. The fire of Sam was at the center. A nucleus.

So what did that make Dean? Off center in this sphere, he would rattle around like a loose bearing, damaging the whole structure, which he suddenly realized was made of something even more fragile than glass. He couldn't let that happen. He had always been the flaw in the plan, the bad thing in the lives of those he loved.

He rolled into the fire. He expected pain, immolation, but at least it would balance the sphere, and it might even provide it a tiny bit of power. Better than nothing. But it didn't consume him. It included him in the fire, and the sphere floated serenely. Empty stars. Cold dark. Warm fire at the heart. Balance.

Sam's hand was on the back of his neck. Big warm fingers, gentle pressure. Sam's mouth -

Oh.

Oh God, _oh_.

Sam's other arm was around Dean's back so when Dean's spine snapped straight in guilty shock, he couldn't roll away and escape. Of course he couldn't, because he didn't deserve to. He'd been caught at the most awful possible thing ( _naked on top of his little brother_ ) and he didn't deserve to just get away with it.

"Dean," said Sam, arm locked tight around his back. His voice was very quiet and Dean had to strain to hear him over his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. The whoosh of the air kicking on right then didn't help, either. "Pretend you're asleep if you want. Pretend I am. I don't - I don't _care_."

The hand on the back of Dean's neck slid up a little, touching his hair, cupping the back of his head. This was all the warning he had. Sam kissed him in about the way you'd expect Sam to kiss - earnest, a little clumsy but in a good way, giving 100 percent at the first try. Warm and sweet and eager and irresistible: Sam.

He kept thinking, Any minute I'll stop this, put a stop to this. Any minute.

Sam moved so that they lay on their sides facing one another. Dean was gripping Sam's T-shirt, breathing hard. Sam, also panting, laughed. "You sleep naked." His hand was on Dean's hip. Dean squirmed.

"Feels good to sleep naked." He was mumbling, fiercely embarrassed over this of all things.

"Does it?" Sam pulled free, and Dean had enough time for a good strong mix of disappointment and relief when he heard rustling. Sam was taking off his clothes.

Then he was back. Naked. "You're right." Why did he seem even bigger when he was naked, taking up more of Dean's bed? At least the nice memory foam didn't just cave in and dump them both into the middle.

It might as well have, though, because Sam scooped him close again with one big naked arm against his big naked self. Unnerved by the interruption, Dean was about to squirm free and call the whole thing off like he should have done from the very beginning, when Sam said the one thing he could have said to get past any objection, ever.

"Please. Dean. I need you."

_Aw, Sammy, that's cheating._

At least it was dark, truly dark. He couldn't have coped with this otherwise, it would have been too unnerving to be able to see. He knew Sam by heart anyhow. He put his hand into Sam's hair and tugged on it. It turned out they both liked that.

When he kissed Sam, Sam made a little noise into his mouth and entangled Dean in all of his limbs. Apparently, he'd done that right.

Sam moved his head after a while and put his lips to Dean's ear. Dean thought he was about to do more kissing, but then heard Sam whisper.

"When I was in the Pit. And. The things Lucifer did to me."

Dean squirmed. "Sam - "

"Don't worry. I won't tell you everything. But I need to tell you this one thing."

"Okay," said Dean, because there it was again. Sam _needed_. And Sam was the one who needed things to be in words, and Dean was the only person who could possibly hear them. He owed it to Sam.

"He spent a lot of time playing with me. Messing with my sense of reality, and pretending to be other people when he - did things to me. He was _everybody_. He was Bobby. He was _Dad_. He was every monster we've ever fought with. Every friend who ever helped us. He was good at it. He was _convincing_.

"But Dean, when he'd pretend to be you - "

" _Stop_ ," Dean said, recoiling, but Sam held on doggedly. "No, Dean, listen! I'm trying to tell you. When he'd pretend to be you he really thought he had me. It was the worst thing he could do, right? But Dean. When he tried to be you - he _failed_. He wasn't anything _like_ you. And that would be the only time I'd absolutely _know_ it wasn't real because you, you love me, and he couldn't fake that."

Dean couldn't say anything. His arms around Sam were trembling.

Sam said, softly, but in a more commanding tone than he usually used with Dean, "Say what you're thinking."

"I let you do that," Dean said immediately. "I let you - throw yourself into that."

"You didn't let me and you know it. I had to. There was no other choice. It worked, didn't it? I got out, didn't I?"

"But it wasn't fair, you suffered, it wasn't _fair_."

"You suffered," Sam said. "For me. It was my turn."

"You weren't supposed to have a _turn!_ " Dean gripped him by the shoulders, shook him. "You're supposed to be protected, _I'm_ supposed to protect you." _But I let you jump into the Pit and let the goddamn devil get his hands all over you._

"But I'm long since old enough to do my part, Dean. Protecting you. If that's what I want to do. So deal with it."  
  


Dean couldn't deal with it. Not just like that. He tried to turn away, but Sam still wouldn't let him go.

"That's what I needed to tell you," Sam said. "That's all. I don't think about the Pit, anymore. Not for no reason. And you shouldn't have to dream about Hell when you already had to go there. _That's_ not fair."

"But the things I did," Dean began.

"I know," said Sam. "I know what you did. And I know what I did. Dean, I love you. When you suffer, I suffer. The same way you feel for me. And for the same reason! Dad told you to protect me. He made it your mission. And because he did, when you suffer protecting me, it's my fault. Don't tell me it isn't."

"I don't just protect you because Dad told me to," Dean said. "I always did. I felt like that from the day they brought you home from the hospital."

_This is your little brother,_ Mom had said, looking tired but smiling so bright. _This is Sam_. And Dean had stood up on tiptoe to see, looking into the folds of blanket to see his brother's face. _He's so little_ , Dean had said, a little disappointed, because he'd thought a little brother would be someone he could play with right away, not a sleepy pink piglet. _Not for long_ , Mom had said, and hadn't she been right. _You'll look out for him, won't you, my little angel? - Okay, Mom. Hi Sam. I'm Dean. I'm four years old and you're - no years old._ And their parents had laughed. And one of them had ruffled his hair approvingly, but he never knew which one, because he was looking at Sam, who was smiling at him.

These were weird things to think about right here and now. Dean squirmed again. In response, Sam pushed Dean onto his back and nuzzled at his throat. Dean gulped for air, then said hoarsely into the darkness, "Sam. This isn't okay. You know that."

"I woke up with you on top of me, kissing me. You started it, Dean. I promise you." And before Dean could thoroughly absorb all the guilt in that, Sam added, "I can promise you something else. We will not accidentally knock each other up."

Dean froze, then reluctantly snickered. He got what Sam was saying. Nobody wanted to say That Word straight out.

"Need you, Dean." Sam said it again, making it impossible for Dean to resist anymore. He kissed Dean's throat. He must have been able to feel Dean's hammering pulse with his lips. "Please."

Dean reached up and pulled Sam down onto him and lavished the best kiss he knew how to give on his brother's mouth. There wasn't anything else to say. Sam didn't have to say that he had memories of Dean touching him that weren't real, and that it would take real ones to blot them out. He had been touched without love, which was how he knew it wasn't really Dean. Dean had nothing left to do but love him and touch him.

Sam was on top of him, but Dean took control right away. He could do that, when Sam needed him to. He ran his hands down that long smooth muscular back and gripped Sam's hips, stroking experimentally with one thumb. Sam reared back, ticklish, and Dean stopped the provoking motion immediately. "Sorry," he said hoarsely. "Come back here."

Sam did, but realigned himself so that suddenly they were in contact - all the way down. Naked, hard, touching, all the way down. Dean groaned, writhing as much in embarrassment as in pleasure. Pressed together, hot, hard, goddammit is he bigger, maybe just a _little_. Throbbing, their pulses both fast-fast-fast, but not quite in time with each other.

Sam panted against his mouth and said, "Dean. You feel so good."

Dean thrust up against him, whimpering. Sam felt good too, but he couldn't _talk_. Not now. Not about what they were doing, which was rubbing their cocks together. There was probably a word for that, but Dean didn't know what it was. He was glad he didn't.

"Jesus. Sam." Then, " _Harder_."

Dean found his hands resting on Sam's shoulders, gripping hard, pulling not pushing. He felt the change in Sam's upper-body weight as Sam leaned on one arm instead of two. He felt Sam slide that freed hand down between their bellies.

"Fff _fuck_ ," Dean said as Sam's warm fingers and broad palm wrapped around both of them at the same time. And stroked.

And all of a sudden, all that talking he couldn't do, he suddenly could. "please Sam oh my God touch me don't stop I'll do whatever you want I fucking love you - "

Sam kissed him and shut him up. His hand tightened, and the rhythm changed, faster. Dean ran his hands down Sam's back again, since he couldn't talk. He dug his fingertips into muscle and pushed up, moaning into Sam's mouth. And he came, dazzlingly hard, legs shaking. Sam lifted his head and said, hoarsely, " _Dean_ ," and he came too.

Sam moved his hand aside and collapsed right down on top of him. Dean could feel Sam's heartbeat against him, galloping, thundering, he could feel it better than he could feel his own heart. They were both panting.

Pushing and sliding, a sticky mess. Gah.

Sam laughed at him for worrying about his nice bed and donated his T-shirt to mop them up.

He settled back in, alongside Dean like he'd always slept there. And he had, just not close enough. Dean hesitated, then slung an arm around him. Sam breathed and made sleepy noises.

Then he said, "Dean? You okay?"

He'd asked that before, but now Sam meant something different.

Was he okay?

"Yeah?" he said, almost a question - trying the answer out.

Sam thought that was funny. He laughed a little, then rolled toward Dean and said, "Don't worry. I'm not gonna try to make you talk about your feelings."

"Good," said Dean. He was starting to drift, drowsy from sex. He didn't usually stay long enough afterwards to sleep. But this was his own bed. And this was Sam. His Sam.

Sam said, near his ear, his voice sleepy, "Don't have to." _Because I know about your feelings,_ he meant.

"Good," said Dean, again. And then he slept.


End file.
